


Ain’t It Good To Think About The Weather

by torakowalski



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’m not doing this because I feel guilty, Raylan,” Boyd said honestly.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Raylan blinked.  “So why are you doing this?  Your daddy was a-.  Was not a good man.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Boyd smiled without any humour.  “No, but he was still my daddy and it’s just plain rude to shoot a man’s daddy before he can do it himself.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain’t It Good To Think About The Weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fantasticpants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticpants/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, fantasticpants! I was so pleased to get a chance to write in this fandom and I really hope you enjoy the result. With thanks to x_dark_siren_x for audiencing and reassurance, and to the pouncer for American-picking and fantastic beta comments.

It wasn’t hard to track down the woman who’d shot his daddy.  The only reason it took Boyd the couple hours it did was that he was bleeding steadily from the neck and shoulder region and the road kept blinking in and out, in and out as he drove along the highway.

The dizziness was mighty inconvenient but not enough to stop him seeing this through to its bitter, and hopefully bloody, conclusion.

Boyd pulled up behind her truck and pulled the parking brake on too hard so it screeched. He picked up his rifle from the passenger seat and got out of the car.  The air conditioning in the car had been for shit but it must have done some good because the heat from the road hit him like a suffocating slap in the face as soon as he stepped onto the asphalt.

He steadied himself with a hand on top of the car and squinted across the road at the motel she’d chosen.  He’d have preferred a house, somewhere quieter for him to kill her slower but this was where she was so it would have to do.

It wasn’t hard to press himself against the wall and peer into every room until he found her; she was talking on her cell phone, back to the window like she was so confident no one would be coming after her that she wasn’t even trying to keep a look out.  

Boyd hefted the rifle up into his arms, pressing the butt against his wounded shoulder, and bracing himself against the pain that stabbed through his chest and ran down his arm.

She didn’t turn around, must not have heard hear the press of the barrel against the windowpane, which was good because Boyd’s vision was greying out, turning hot and blurred in front of his eyes until he couldn’t focus through the sight.

He lowered the rifle, took a minute to wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his trembling hand. The sun wasn’t high in the sky but it felt too strong anyway, burning down on him. He let his head fall, using the rifle like a walking stick and leaning his weight on it. It wasn’t enough to stop his knees giving out.

Almost like he was falling in slow motion, Boyd folded down to the ground. He could nearly smell how close he’d gotten to his goal but it might as well have been a million miles for all the good it was doing him.

Taking a deep breath, he tipped his head back against the uneven brickwork of the motel wall, trying to get a grip on himself. He needed to finish what he’d come here to do; he could pass out later if he had to.

The bullet hole in his shoulder was throbbing steadily now, almost like he could feel the blood pumping out of his body.  The edges of his vision grew dark.

Boyd closed his eyes. He was so tired.  He’d been tired for as long as he could remember and it was hard not to give into it. He had no flock relying on him, no daddy pestering him and no fellow inmates wanting to kill him; out here in the middle of nowhere, he could be weak and there was no one to care.

In his back pocket, his cellphone started to vibrate. It took him a minute to recognise the feeling and then another to pull it free.

“Hey, Raylan,” he said, holding the phone clumsily against the side of his face, wondering what it said about his life that he was being called by a Deputy Marshal while contemplating murder and trying not to die from a bullet wound.

“Boyd,” Raylan said and then a couple more things that Boyd didn’t pay attention to because the girl - Pilar, he thought Johnny’d said her name was Pilar - had appeared from around the side of the building - maybe she wasn’t so complacent if she wasn’t using her door - and walking across the parking lot.

“Listen, Raylan,” Boyd said, watching her leave without paying Boyd any attention at all. He tried to stand but couldn’t even find his legs right now. “You don’t need to worry about me no more. I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”

Raylan said something else but Boyd let the cell drop, hearing it clatter on the ground.

In his mind’s eye, he could see himself lifting the rifle, shooting Pilar dead where she stood, but in reality, he watched her get inside her car and drive away. He closed his eyes, hating to die having let his daddy down.

***

Boyd woke up somewhere foul smelling and filled with constant screaming, an endless, burning pain pulsing through his upper body. Hell, then; he’d wondered.

“Hey,” someone said, “you waking up?”

Boyd slowly cracked his eyes open.

Okay, maybe he wasn’t in hell; not unless hell looked like an emergency room.

Raylan was sitting on a flimsy plastic chair just in front of a curtained off opening. He was drinking from a plastic cup and watching Boyd like he was a little bit amusing and a whole lot perplexing.

“I didn’t die?” Boyd asked hoarsely, not adding _again_ because a lot of things had changed since his last miraculous survival.

“Well, hey there, I thought you were waking up,” Raylan said. He didn’t stand up but he did drop his feet from the end of the gurney and put them flat on the floor instead, almost a sign of respect. “You know, if I’d known you were five minutes from passing out, I never would have let you out of my sight.”

Boyd smiled slightly. “I had the rifle, Raylan,” he reminded him.

“Hm,” was all Raylan said, like all he needed to do was hum to remind Boyd that he was the quickest draw this side of the Mason-Dixon.

Boyd leaned up slightly, looking around. Yep, definitely the ER; he’d recognise the smell of disinfected sickness anywhere, now that he was awake enough to notice it.

“What am I doing here?” he asked. He wasn’t sure if he meant rather than in a cell or a hospital or dead.

Raylan shrugged. “I found you, all passed out and tragic looking. I did think about leaving you to the vultures, but decided against it in the end.”

“That’s real generous of you,” Boyd said. “So, I’m under arrest then?” He wasn’t too keen on the idea since jail hadn’t been his best experience the last time around but he was resigned

“Nope.” Raylan stood up, putting his coffee cup down on his vacated chair and coming over to Boyd’s gurney.

“I’m _not_?” Boyd asked, too tired to really convey a proper amount of surprise.

“Boyd.” Raylan leaned in close. “I’m only going to say this once so listen close: thank you for coming to Bulletville with me and thank you for helping me save Ava. And no, you’re not under arrest.”

“It’s all about Ava, huh?” Boyd asked. He hadn’t been hoping to earn anything from Raylan when he travelled with him to the cabin, but it made sense to him that Raylan saw it that way. Raylan was a true believer in an eye for an eye.

Raylan made a tipping motion with his hand. “Well, that and maybe you’ll come in useful in the future.”

“Useful?” Boyd asked. That didn’t sound great; he thought he might he’d prefer jail after all.

Raylan didn’t answer. He walked away from Boyd and pushed the curtain back, leaning out of the cubicle and hailing a passing nurse.

“Excuse me,” he said and Boyd didn’t need to see his face to know he was using his most charming smile, the one that could get him pretty nearly anything he wanted. “My friend’s awake. I was wondering if you could find him a doctor.”

“I don’t know,” Boyd heard the nurse say apologetically. “They’re all pretty busy.”

“Sure,” Raylan said easily. “But I really would appreciate it if you’d try.”

Boyd rolled his eyes.

“There,” Raylan said, ducking back into the cubicle and grinning at Boyd. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

 _And go where?_ Boyd thought. Aloud, he asked, “There anyone you won’t flirt with?”

Raylan shrugged, bashfully unrepentant in the way that only he could manage. “He didn’t seem to mind,” he said.

“Raylan,” Boyd said seriously, “You’re sure?” He’d committed his crimes, he was prepared to do his time for them. He was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything to deserve Raylan trying to do anything to change that.

“I told you,” Raylan said, “maybe I’ll find a use for you. But before I can do that, you’re going to need to get better, so you just concentrate on healing for now, okay?”

“No, Raylan, not-,” Boyd started, but he was interrupted by the doctor arriving. It wasn’t like Boyd could argue about how he really should be going to jail in front of her so he fell silent and settled for glaring at Raylan instead.

Raylan smiled sunnily at him every time he noticed.

***

Apparently, Raylan really wasn’t planning to arrest him. It was disconcerting.

(“I blew up a meth lab,” Boyd pointed out quietly while they waited for his discharge papers. He didn’t mention that there’d been a man inside it, but he thought Raylan must know that.

“Yeah,” Raylan said, not looking at him. “I’ve heard those are pretty volatile.”)

(“I shot that boy from Miami,” Boyd reminded him while they cruised down the I-75.

“Self defence,” Raylan told him and turned up the radio, filling the car with the harsh whine of electric guitars so Boyd couldn’t keep up any kind of conversation.)

They pulled up outside Raylan’s motel late in the evening, way past dark and almost heading back around to light again. The pain pills Boyd had been given in the ER had worn off a while back and he’d spent the last part of the car journey biting down hard on a knuckle after every sharp turn and pothole.

“You okay?” Raylan asked, looking at Boyd hard when he climbed out of the car and winced as he tried to straighten up.

“I’m good,” Boyd lied. He looked up at the motel and then back at the dark road they’d just travelled. He should keep moving, he thought, but the problem was that he had nowhere to go. “You think they have space for me here?”

“I reckon they might be able to squeeze you in,” Raylan said sardonically, looking at the peeling paint and flickering neon _vacancies_ sign with pursed lips, “but it doesn’t matter since you’re sleeping in with me tonight.”

Okay, now Boyd knew he was imagining all this; he was dying on the roadside somewhere, hallucinating.

“I’m what, now?” he asked, managing to keep his voice from rising too far off the scale of incredulity.

“The doctor released you into my care and I take my responsibilities seriously,” Raylan said, chin lowered slightly and looking across at Boyd with wide eyes like that was going to make Boyd believe him.

“You are so full of bullshit,” Boyd told him, reluctantly impressed.

Raylan shrugged. He started up the steps to the porch. “Come on, then.” He turned at the top of the steps and looked back down at Boyd. “I mean, unless you’ve got a whole mess of family members waiting at home to tend to your wounds?”

“Cheap shot,” Boyd said, unimpressed, but he dragged himself forward anyway.

***

When Boyd woke up, sometime just before dawn, his skin was sweat slick and air felt sticky-hot.  The bandage on his shoulder felt like it might slip off at any moment but then so did the rest of his skin.  He felt rank and dirty and like he needed to get some air.

A careful look around the room showed that Raylan had fallen asleep in his armchair, his hat tipped down over his eyes and his neck bent at a bad angle.  Boyd would have felt worse about that but it wasn’t like he’d asked Raylan to bring him here or anything.

The room swam like it was under water when Boyd pulled first one foot then the other out of the bed and tried to set them on the floor, but he managed to get his balance and to keep it just as long as he kept one hand braced on the wall.

He found his shoes at the end of the bed, tucked under his pants and blood-stiff shirt, which were folded up like someone had tried to keep them nice or something.  He appreciated the thought. He pulled on the pants and shoes but left the shirt where it was.  

The motel room door was heavy, heavier than Boyd had been anticipating, or maybe he was just weaker because it took all his strength to wrench it open.  The night air probably wasn’t too cool but it felt like blessed relief after the inside of the room.  

Boyd got himself out onto the veranda and was squinting through his blurred-up vision, trying to remember exactly how the land lay around here when a floorboard squeaked behind him and Rayland said, “Are you seriously trying to sneak out on me?”

“Not exactly,” Boyd said, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved that Raylan had caught him.  It wasn’t like he’d had a plan or anything; it had felt more like he was _supposed_ to try to escape than like he’d really wanted to.

“Yes, you were.”  Raylan put his hand on Boyd’s good shoulder, clearly telegraphing that he was prepared to pull Boyd back into the room with his bare hands if Boyd took another step.  “I can’t believe you.  I’m here offering to nurse you back to health.  Do I strike you as someone who usually nurses people back to health, Boyd?”

“Yes,” Boyd told him honestly because Raylan was the kind of person who cared far too much, even though he pretended not to.  Case in point being Boyd being here at all, not back in Lexington Federal Medical Center and this time without the certain glow of God’s love to keep him sane.

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” Raylan asked but it was sleep-rough and lacking any true bite.  “Come on, then.  Back inside.”

Boyd tried to shake off Raylan’s hand but couldn’t get the coordination right.  “It’s damn hot in there,” he said instead of coming up with any real argument for why he needed to leave.

Raylan squeezed his shoulder; it didn’t feel like _just_ a warning. “No, it’s not.  You’re just getting a fever.  Come on back inside. The doc gave you antibiotics for a reason, you know.”

The porch was starting to spin like it was on its way to Oz so Boyd let Raylan lead him back to the bed.  

He dropped down onto it and rubbed at his temples.  “I wasn’t really trying to escape,” he said because that felt important for Raylan to know for some reason.

“Whatever,” Raylan said and pressed a wet glass of cold water and two round, white pills into Boyd’s hands.

Boyd swallowed down the pills and drank the water slowly. When he looked up, he frowned at the heavy way Raylan was leaning against the wall. There were dark shadows under Raylan’s eyes, barely hidden by the lighter shadows playing across the rest of the room.  

“Shit, Raylan,” Boyd said, bending down to put his glass on the floor and managing not to topple straight over onto the carpet. “Get yourself some sleep. You look like the dead come back to life.”

Raylan straightened up and widened his eyes, his expression all _who? me?_.  “What?  So you can sneak out on me again?” he asked.

Boyd rolled his eyes.  He wasn’t going to try to leave again tonight; he was too lightheaded and he didn’t want to pass out in the street again.  Once was poor planning; twice was stupid.

“For fuck’s sake. Give me your handcuffs then,” he heard himself say, wondering if it was the fever talking.

Raylan looked at him like he was wondering the same thing. “Say what now?”

Boyd stepped out of his shoes and lay down on the bed, held out his hand.  “Give me the damn handcuffs, Ray.  I ain’t going nowhere tonight.”  

“Kinky,” Raylan told him, eyebrows raised, but he was obviously too tired to put any real leer into it.  
Boyd held his hands out patiently, waiting for the cuffs so he could chain himself to something and have Raylan go back to sleep, but Raylan shook his head.

“No,” Raylan said, frowning like it pained him to say. “Weirdly, I’m finding myself trusting you. Don’t screw me over, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Boyd agreed, trying to pretend like he didn’t feel even a little pleased.

“Idiot,” Raylan added and put one knee up on bed. “Move over then.”

“Do what?” Boyd asked but he hadn’t even gotten the question all the way out before Raylan was stretching out on the bed beside him, putting his hat on the table and folding his hands over his belly.

Lying on his back, his eyes closed, Raylan looked the picture of peace.  If a snoozing rattlesnake was ever at peace.  Boyd just stared. Back when they were young and stupid and buoyed up on earning real money for the first time in their lives, they’d spent a couple of months fucking every chance they could get, but even then they’d rarely ever _slept_ together.

“Stop staring,” Raylan rumbled. “You said you wanted me to get a good night’s sleep.” Then he fell silent like he’d honestly fallen asleep just like that.

“I don’t understand you,” Boyd admitted aloud.  Raylan snored amiably.

***

While Boyd spent the next few days puttering around the motel, healing up way too slowly for his tastes, Raylan got on with his life.

He still went to work, still took supper with Winona and made time with Ava but, as far as Boyd could tell, he wasn’t sleeping with either of them.  Boyd wondered if they or any of the people Raylan worked with knew that he had a Crowder recuperating in his bedroom.  

One night, when Raylan had come home more than a little drunk and thrown himself down on the bed, still wearing his pants and boots and that ridiculous hat, Boyd thought about asking. Instead, he found himself saying, “How’s Arlo?”

Raylan, who’d been lazily swinging his leg to a beat that only existed in his head, went still. “No idea,” he said at last.

“He still alive?” Boyd asked. He’d only gotten a glimpse of Arlo before they left for the cabin but he’d definitely been bleeding.

Raylan shrugged. “I guess. I figure my Aunt Helen would have mentioned it if he’d died.”

“Right,” Boyd said and didn’t push it. If he hadn’t known Raylan as well as he did, he might even have bought the casual act. As it was, he stood up and walked over to Raylan’s collection of liquor bottles, pouring them both a generous splash of bourbon.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

Raylan hesitated for a second then took it. “Boyd, if you’re trying to get me drunk so I’ll cry on your shoulder -.” He tipped his head, one way then the next.

Boyd looked down at him. “Shit no,” he said. “You really think I want to know _your_ secrets? I have enough nightmares of my own.”

Raylan tipped his head back and looked at Boyd for a while. Then he laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “Keep the drinks coming then.”

***

Almost like Boyd had invoked her by asking after Arlo, the next day Helen Givens knocked on his door.

Of course, since it wasn’t actually _his_ door, Boyd was expecting her to act shocked when Boyd said hey, and told her that Raylan was at work.

Boyd should have remembered that nothing shocked Raylan’s Aunt Helen.

“I know that,” Helen said, barrelling past him and into the room. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, looking around at the dark interior. “Honestly. This looks like the worst kind of bachelor house. Don’t you boys ever crack a window? It smells like sickness.”

“Well,” Boyd said, leaning back against the table and watching her pull the curtains apart and fling the windows open, “I _am_ sick, ma’am.”

“Nonsense.” Helen finished opening all the windows and breathed in, clearly more satisfied now. “You got shot through your own stupidity and now you’re hiding out here. That’s no reason to wallow in your own filth.”

Boyd opened his mouth to tell her that he took a shower just that morning but he’d never won an argument with her up until now so he decided not to try again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said instead.

Helen rolled her eyes. “That’s better,” she said.

Boyd smiled. He liked Helen, always had. She hadn’t been Raylan’s stepmom when Boyd first met her but she’d sure acted like she was, warning Boyd away from Raylan in the first place then grudgingly warming to him when he’d assured her that paying her no mind was no sign of disrespect.

“Boyd,” she said, dragging him back to the present, “I wanted to tell you something, since I’m pretty sure that Raylan’s not going to.” Her voice softened a little, not a lot but enough to be noticeable. “They’re burying your daddy tomorrow.”

If Boyd hadn’t already been sitting down he might have needed to. He’d known, obviously, that the funeral would have to come but he hadn’t really thought about it. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “What time?” he asked.

“Three p.m. The funeral home on Cumberland. You’ll be going then?”

“Yes,” Boyd said, finding that he was completely certain about that. “Yeah, I will.” There’d been a lot of death in Boyd’s family, but never before had someone else had to tell him when the funeral was taking place; it was almost as surreal as not being sat in his father’s parlour, surrounded by cakes and casseroles from well-wishers, the way they’d been after Boyd’s mama and after Bowman.

Helen nodded like she was pleased with him. “Well, I’d better be going,” she said, putting her hand on the door then stopping and turning back to look at him. “I’m sorry for your loss, Boyd. And if you hurt Raylan again, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

“Thank you, Mrs Givens,” Boyd said, not sure when he’d hurt Raylan the first time but still grateful for the information and the condolence.  

***

“Interfering old woman,” Raylan muttered when he got home that night. He wasn’t home late and he didn’t smell of fried chicken or hard liquor so Boyd thought that maybe he’d come straight from work for once.

“I’m going,” Boyd told him firmly. He’d driven over to Johnny’s house earlier, taken his suit out of the closet since it wasn’t like Johnny would be needing it, but he was still missing something. “Now, you going to lend me a tie or do I have to undo all the good work you’ve been doing keeping me out of jail, by shoplifting one?”

“Or maybe you could just buy one?” Raylan said. “And what makes you think I have a black tie?” But he went out soon after and came back with a soft black necktie, one of the expensive kind, sticking out of his coat pocket.

“If Winona’s Gary asks,” he said, “you have no idea what he’s talking about.”

Boyd wrapped the fabric around his hand, squeezing it into a fist. “Thanks,” he said.

***

The Crowder family was pretty big but none of them showed up to Bo’s funeral.

For a time, it looked like the only person there would be Boyd and Bo’s pastor, but then the church door swung open slowly and Arlo Givens shuffled in.

“Boyd,” he said with a jerk of his chin. He’d gotten shot the same day as Boyd, but he looked like he felt much worse about it, stooped and pale and old in a way Boyd hadn't yet thought of anyone from his father's generation reaching.

Boyd nodded back, the music stopped and they ignored each other for the rest of the service. The pastor kept his remarks general, didn't praise the departed as a good father or pillar of the community. There was a part about redemption in the afterlife that Boyd couldn’t decide if he wanted to believe to be true.

Later, at the cemetery, Boyd stared at the hole in the ground with his daddy’s casket lowered down inside it, let the pastor’s words wash over him and thought about nothing at all.

Eventually, the sermon stopped and Arlo shuffled away. Boyd sat down on the ground next to the freshly turned earth. Once upon a time, he’d had a family, now he had no mother, no father, no brother. He was the only one left, so Lord help Bo’s legacy.

After a minute, a shadow fell over him.

“He was never proud of me,” Boyd said quietly, nodding when Raylan gave up lurking over him and came to sit next to him instead. “You know how that feels, right?”

“Yup,” Raylan agreed. “Though I’m not sure either of us want to be the kind of people that Bo or Arlo might be proud of.”

Boyd tipped his head, acknowledging the point.

They sat in silence for a while and then, “Hey,” Raylan said, “heads up.”

Boyd looked over at him just in time to catch the squat little black leather book that Raylan had tossed from his lap into Boyd’s.

“I didn’t know where you were with your whole God dilemma, but that one’s yours and I figured that if there was ever a time you might need that it’d be now,” Raylan said sounding almost as awkward as Raylan Givens ever sounded while Boyd turned the Bible over and over in his hands, running his thumb over the familiar gold lettering.

“Where’d you find it?” Boyd asked.  It felt the same as it always had in his hands.  He felt like it shouldn’t somehow.

“Crime scene officers had it in evidence lock-up,” Raylan said and Boyd clenched his hands, feeling the leather fold under his hands.  He’d left it by the camp fire. He didn’t want to think about faceless men and women sweeping it up like they must have swept up the bodies of his flock.

“After I buried my guys,” Boyd told Raylan quietly, “I tried to read to them from this book, except that when I tried, the words wouldn’t come.”  The verses on the page had become just words again, no longer a divine revelation, and doubt had started to creep in.  The warm glow of finally belonging had been extinguished. Boyd had closed the Book and he hadn’t opened it again since.

Raylan knocked his knee against Boyd’s.  He tilted his head, studying Boyd.  “You know,” he said slowly, “when you told me you’d found God, I thought it was a load of horse shit.”

Boyd nodded, smiling slightly.  He knew that.  “I know,” he said but Raylan held up his hand, letting Boyd know that he wasn’t finished with whatever it was he was trying to say.

“ _Except_.  I think that maybe you were being genuine, after all. And I’m not saying that I want you to go back to all the fire and brimstone talk again, but I think you should keep the Book.  Just until you’re sure. That sound fair?”

Boyd swallowed hard, not sure what to say to that.  From the conversation they’d had on their way to Bulletville, Boyd was pretty sure that Raylan’s God was not Boyd’s God.  Boyd’s God was vengeful and glorious; Raylan’s sounded more like Santa Claus.  But the idea that Raylan thought that Boyd’s beliefs were genuine, that was nice.

“Sounds fair,” he agreed eventually.

“Right.” Raylan slapped his hands down onto his knees. “Now, if you’re done, Ava’s making pot roast and you’re invited.”

“I’m pretty sure that I am never welcome in Ava’s kitchen again,” Boyd said, rising and following Raylan across the graveyard. He looked back once at his daddy’s grave but it was already fading into evening shadows.

“Tonight you are,” Raylan told him. He smiled. “Just so long as we all check our weapons at the door.”

***

At Ava’s house, Boyd tried to be on his best behaviour, well aware that he’d done nothing to deserve her kindness in inviting him over, but the drink was flowing freely and the conversation kept turning back to Bo so he accepted every refill that was offered.

By the time he and Raylan got back to the motel, Boyd felt a little drunk. “I thought you’d have stayed,” he told Raylan, leaning heavily against the door while Raylan unlocked it.

“Stayed?” Raylan asked, prodding him in the side to get him moving into the room.

“At Ava’s.” Boyd pulled off his jacket and walked over to the sink, taking a drink straight out of the faucet. “You didn’t have to leave on my account.”

“Yeah,” Raylan said slowly. When Boyd looked up, he saw that Raylan was looking at him strange. “I’m not sleeping with Ava.” At Boyd’s rude noise, he amended, “Anymore.”

Huh. Not that it was any of Boyd’s business, but he was surprised. Raylan was the definition of an old-fashioned romantic; Boyd was surprised he’d just give up like that. “How come?”

Raylan shrugged. “It only seemed to bring down trouble,” he said. “On both of us.”

Boyd bent down to unlace his shoes but he looked up at Raylan from under his hair, feeling what felt like the first real smile in a long time tugging at his mouth.

“It didn’t turn out too bad for me. Got me out of jail, at least,” he said.

Raylan shook his head, but not before Boyd caught him grinning. “Like I said, nothing but trouble.”

Boyd managed to keep the feel of his own smile with him all the way until he’d gotten into bed and was curled on his side away from Raylan, his injured arm tucked against his chest.

“Raylan,” he said quietly, alcohol giving him an insight that all the over-thinking in the world hadn’t managed, “did you not tell me about the funeral because you thought Gio might show up and try to kill me?”

“I thought it might be a possibility,” Raylan said after a pause, like he was trying to decide whether to tell the truth. “You shot his boy; he’s not going to sit on that forever.”

“Yeah,” Boyd said. He didn’t know what made him keep talking. Well, he did; it was the alcohol still buzzing in his veins. “I was hoping that Pilar would, the girl?”

“Still looking for revenge?” Raylan asked and Boyd couldn’t read his tone at all. It was almost enough to make him wish that the lights were on or that that they were facing each other so that he could see Raylan’s face.

“Something like that,” Boyd agreed. “I don’t like leaving things unfinished. It’s messy. I had her in my sights and I failed. One thing I could actually do for my daddy and I messed it up.”

Raylan fell silent. “Go to sleep, Boyd,” he said and Boyd felt a soft pat-pat of Raylan’s hand on his hip before the mattress shifted as Raylan rolled away.

***

  
   
Boyd woke up the next morning when Raylan threw a gun down onto the bed and said, “Get dressed, we’re going on a stakeout.”

Boyd sat up slowly and rubbed at his eyes and the hangover lurking behind them.  “Pardon?” he asked doubtfully, “You remember I’m not a Marshal, right?”

“Shit, really,” Raylan said dryly.  “I would never have guessed.”

Boyd shook his head, rolling his shoulder slowly, checking his range of movement because Raylan obviously meant what he was saying even if Boyd had no idea what that was just yet.

“Raylan,” he asked, “What’s going on?”

Raylan sat down on the bed. “I know where Pilar is,” he said, “or, rather, where she’s going to be at some point over the next few days.”

“Okay, I am not awake enough for this,” Boyd said, which was actually a lie since he was waking up pretty fucking quick all of a sudden. “Where’s she going to be?”

“Harlan,” Raylan told him. “I’m hoping you can help me narrow down the exact location. It seems like, with Bo no longer running the show, a lot of people are trying to move in on his turf. We got word that our old friend Gio is sending Pilar down to find some of your daddy’s papers.”

Huh, Boyd thought, maybe this was why Raylan had kept him around all along. “Try my grandmother’s old place,” Boyd told him immediately because he owed no loyalty to Bo and he did owe some at least to Raylan. “That’s where Bo hid most of his most important shit.”

“Excellent.” Raylan picked up his cellphone, typed something in. “See, you’re earning your keep already.”

“Raylan,” Boyd said, frowning. “You could just as easily asked me that if I’d been in jail.”

Raylan grinned. “Maybe I just like having you around,” he said. “You ever think about that?”

“I-,” Boyd started then decided he didn’t even want to touch that. “Why?” he asked instead, not _why would you like having me around?_ (though he’d like to know that too) but _why are you helping me on my mission for revenge?_

Raylan walked over to the dresser, pulling out a clean pair of pants and dropping the ones he was wearing.   “Your daddy, my daddy, between us we’ve got ourselves a shit load of daddy troubles,” he said, “and you know what they say about a trouble shared.”  He looked over his shoulder and winked.

Boyd tried his best but he couldn’t find a smile.  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, getting out of bed.  “Put some damn pants on, Raylan, your ass ain’t all it used to be.”

Raylan’s laugh followed Boyd into the bathroom; he was pleased that one of them could find some humour in the situation.

***

A couple of hours later, the two of them were sitting in a dark, inconspicuous sedan, waiting outside what was left of Boyd’s grandmother’s old house.

Boyd didn’t know where the rest of his family had run to and frankly he didn’t care; Johnny was the only one he’d gotten on with and Boyd hadn’t been innocent in getting him killed.

“We just going to sit here all day?” Boyd asked.  

“Yup,” Raylan agreed placidly.  “And tomorrow too if she doesn’t show today.”

“Right,” Boyd said dubiously because he knew Raylan and Raylan did not have the patience for a long stakeout. “What are you going to do if your boss finds out I’m here with you?”

Raylan cast him a sidelong glance.  “Why Boyd, your help has been invaluable. How would I ever have found Bo’s hideout without you?” he asked innocently.

“I don’t know, Raylan,” Boyd said slowly, “but you could probably have asked your father?”

“Oh, hush,” Raylan said and they fell into silence.  

“My friend Tim was a sniper with the Rangers,” Raylan said out of nowhere.  “Once, he staked out this guy for three days.”

“Yeah?” Boyd asked, eyes focused on the house.

Raylan ploughed on, apparently not caring that Boyd hadn’t given him a real response.  “Yeah.  Apparently they told them to make up stories about themselves and the mark.”

“Yeah?” Boyd asked again.

Raylan laughed.  “Well aren’t you fucking chatty today?”

Sighing, Boyd turned to him.  If this was how police work normally went then Boyd was more than happy staying on his side of the law.  “Sorry.  So, what?  You want to make up stories about yourself and an empty house? Because that’s mighty weird, Raylan, even for you.”

Raylan had clearly just been stalling to get Boyd’s attention because as soon as Boyd was looking at him, he turned serious.  “You can go if you want,” he said. “You don’t have to do this. It wasn’t your fault.”

“What?” Boyd asked, even though he knew.

Raylan looked at him like he knew Boyd knew too.  “Your daddy dying, that’s not your fault.  I’m not saying you blowing up that ephedrine helped, but Bo made his choices long before you - or me - was even born.”

Boyd shook his head.  “I’m not doing this because I feel guilty, Raylan,” he said honestly.

Raylan blinked.  “So why are you doing this?  Your daddy was a-.  Was not a good man.”

Boyd smiled without any humour.  “No, but he was still my daddy and it’s just plain rude to shoot a man’s daddy before he can do it himself.”

Raylan laughed.  He reached over and bumped Boyd on the shoulder (not his wounded one) with the side of his fist.  

Before either of them could say anything else, a car swept up the road and pulled up onto the sidewalk.  

“Right,” Raylan said, picking his hat up off the dashboard. “Ready to shake some shit up?”

***

“Excuse me,” Raylan called. “Ma’am.”

Pilar spun around, her hand disappearing under her leather jacket and coming out holding a semi-automatic.

Boyd hesitated for a fraction of a second, expecting Raylan to whip out his gun and do his John Wayne thing, except he didn’t so Boyd threw himself down behind the truck, cursing himself and Pilar and Raylan when he jarred his shoulder.

“What the fuck?” he asked when Raylan landed beside him. “Why didn’t you shoot her?”

Raylan looked across at him, slapping a new magazine into his handgun. “I thought maybe you’d want to,” he said.

“Really?” Boyd asked. He pulled the gun Raylan had given him out of his pants and waved it at Raylan. “Distract her, then.”

“Gladly,” Raylan said, touching his hat to Boyd and rolling down onto his belly, peeking out from behind the front wheel. “US Marshal, put down your weapon,” he called.

Pilar started shooting at him.

Boyd waited until Raylan was firing back then lifted himself out of his crouch. He crept quietly around the car, moving slowly through the gravel until he was standing behind her.

Pilar’s eyes were fixed on Raylan, concentrating on avoiding his shots and adding some of her own. She didn’t notice Boyd was there until he raised his gun, pressing it against the back of her head.

She went still.

“Stand up,” he said.

Slowly, she got to her feet and turned around.

“You recognise me, right?” Boyd asked.

“Yes.” She blew out a breath, her bangs rising and falling. Her eyes were bright and fierce, not at all afraid. “You are the man who blew up my shipment.”

“Yep.” Boyd nodded. “And you’re the woman who killed my father. Some might say that makes us even, but not me.”

Boyd’s finger curled around the trigger. This was it; this was the moment he put a bullet in her brain and finally took his revenge.

Before he could squeeze the trigger, Boyd made the mistake of glancing over her left shoulder. Raylan was standing a little way behind her, out of the range of any bullets, watching Boyd with this look in his eyes like he was disappointed, like he hadn’t really thought Boyd would go through with it.

Boyd looked away quickly. No, he was not going to be swayed from what he had to do by anything, not even Raylan’s pretty brown eyes. He tried to tighten his finger; just a little was all it would take.

He couldn’t do it.

He’d been raised in a town where _Jesus Saves_ was painted on the boarded up windows of empty houses, where convicts played birthday parties for out-of-town tourists and where the mines or the army were the only career options.  Raylan wasn’t the only person who’d ever believed in Boyd, though he was one of only a very few, but he _was_ the only one who’d ever tried to show Boyd that there were better paths than the one he was on.

God damn Raylan Givens, Boyd thought, for being the one person he didn’t want to disappoint.

“Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head,” Boyd said, in his best impression of Raylan’s Marshal voice.

Pilar jerked, staring at him like she hadn’t expected to still be alive in this moment.

“I think the man told you to _drop_ your weapon,” Raylan’s voice said. There was a smile on his face the whole time he slapped the cuffs on her.

Raylan looked over and grinned wider when he saw Boyd watching. “See,” he said, “I told you you’d be useful.”

***

“So Raylan,” Art Mullen said, looking Boyd up and down. “When you said that you had no idea where Boyd Crowder was, hadn’t seen him since the two of you put aside your differences, banded together for the greater good and all that shit? That was just a load of crap, then?”

Raylan didn’t look particularly bothered; at least Boyd didn’t think so, but Mullen looked slightly mollified by Raylan’s wince.

“I wouldn’t say a _load_ ,” Raylan said.

Mullen thumped his fist down onto the desk. “Then it’s a good job I’m saying it for you.” He turned his stare on Boyd, making Boyd feel about one inch tall, which wasn’t an effect that many people had on him. “Mister Crowder, give me one reason why I shouldn’t lock you up right now.”

Boyd spread his hands. “I don’t have one,” he admitted. He glanced at Raylan, wondering what it was about him that had made Boyd voluntarily walk into this precinct with Raylan and Pilar when he’d known that it would likely end badly for him.

“I do,” Raylan said. “Hell, if you give me a minute, I’ll write you a list.” He jerked his chin at the door. “Boyd, could you give us a minute?”

“Don’t I get to hear your list?” Boyd asked, trying to decide if he was more bemused or _a_ mused.

Raylan grinned at him. “Maybe later. If you’re good.”

Mullen rolled his eyes.

Ten minutes - and a lot of muffled shouting - later, Raylan came out of Mullen’s office, letting the glass door swing shut behind him.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head at Boyd.

“Just like that?” Boyd asked, falling into step beside him.

Raylan didn’t answer.

“Raylan?” Boyd prompted. “What did you tell him?”

Raylan pulled open the front door, holding it for a woman in a smart suit coming in before he’d let Boyd through. Boyd just looked at him; he had manners too, he was just more careful about when he used them.

Raylan passed his hat from one hand to the other. “I just told him that you’d be willing to turn evidence on Pilar and Gio’s whole operation.”

“I would, huh?” Boyd asked, taking a minute to think about it. He would, actually. It wasn’t that much of a question, really.

Raylan turned to look at him just before they got into his car. “Yeah,” he said, “I think you would.”

***

“So I’d call that a successful day’s work, wouldn’t you?” Raylan asked as they drove back to the motel, much later that day.

“Well, except for how your boss looked like he was going to have a stroke when I walked in,” Boyd said.

Raylan laughed. “Now that was a picture,” he agreed. He indicated left and spun them into the motel parking lot. When they were parked up, he said, “So. How come you didn’t kill her?”

Boyd drummed his fingers on the dash for a minute. Raylan parked up and turned off the engine.

“I don’t know,” Boyd said eventually, lying. “I thought maybe I’d try doing things your way for a change.”

“Well,” Raylan said after a moment’s silence, like he was weighing Boyd’s answer and seeing if he believed it, “if it means anything, I’m glad you made that decision.”

“It means something,” Boyd assured him. Too much, probably, and wasn’t now a fine time to be realising that? “You know,” he said, nodding at the motel, “I think it’s time I rented my own room.”

“Okay,” Raylan said slowly, nodding his head. “If that’s what you want to do.”

“It is,” Boyd agreed, because it was that or saying _hey, so apparently I never fell as out of love with you like I hoped I had_ and that would have been a really bad thing to say to the only friend he had left in the world.

***

Boyd woke in the middle of the night to a scratching sound at the front door.  

He rolled out of bed, grabbed the rifle off the floor and tested the weight, judging if his injured shoulder could take it as he crossed to the door.

Looking through the spy hole in the door showed him nothing, which wasn’t reassuring.  He put his hand on the lock and slowly turned it.  The lock was freshly oiled and turned easily and Boyd held his breath as he gently nudged the door open.

There was a scrawny young coyote scratching interestedly at the wooden boards of the front porch.

“Shit,” Boyd breathed, relieved, and lent against the doorframe.  He waved his rifle at the coyote.  “Shoo.”

“You’re not really going to shoot that, are you?” Raylan asked in Boyd’s ear, making Boyd jump and press his hand to his sternum.

“Good Lord, Raylan, don’t sneak up on a person like that.”  Boyd turned around and glared at him, wondering that he hadn’t heard Raylan come out of his room.  “And no.  It’s never done me any harm.”

“Good,” Raylan told him, “I’d hate to have to find a new place to live because you started shooting things in the middle of the night.”  

He walked over to Boyd and took the rifle out of his hands, setting it down inside Boyd’s room.

“It’s quiet in my room,” he said quietly, almost like it was a confession.

“Yeah?” Boyd asked, keeping his voice low as well because Raylan was awfully close to him.

“Mmhm,” Raylan hummed and then, almost out of nowhere except not out of nowhere at all really, Raylan crowded Boyd back against the porch column and kissed him.

Boyd’s first impulse was to grab hold of Raylan and pull him straight down onto the rickety old floorboards, except that he was making a conscious effort toward good decisions these days.  

“Raylan,” he said, turning his face away so Raylan’s lips dragged over his cheek. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t? I do.” Raylan kissed the corner of his mouth. “When you didn’t kill that girl today, I looked in your eyes and I saw the man I used to know. That’s enough for me.”

Fuck, but it was tempting. It was all Boyd wanted in this moment, truth be told. “I’m not that boy anymore,” he said. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been the person Raylan had wanted him to be.

“I know who you are,” Raylan said. He advanced on Boyd until they were in the doorway, Boyd just inside the room, Raylan just outside it. “Shut the door in my face if you want and I promise I’ll never mention this again. But I would really like to come in.”

“Fuck,” Boyd breathed, “come inside.”

Raylan smiled and Boyd decided he might do something desperate if Raylan kept looking at him like that so he fisted a hand in the thin material of Raylan’s t-shirt and dragged him through the door into Boyd’s room.

“We’ll probably do better at this if we don’t think about it too much,” Boyd told him, pulling and pulling until they hit his bed.

The corner of Raylan’s mouth turned up.  “Yeah, you might be right,” he agreed and turned them, pushing Boyd down onto the bed.

Boyd landed on his back with a big enough bounce to jolt his shoulder but not enough to set it aching again.  He had no doubt that that was more than just good luck.

“Hey, so,” Raylan said, peeling his t-shirt off and shucking his underwear.  

He didn’t seem to have more to say than that and Boyd didn’t ask, just kicked off the jeans he’d been sleeping in and pulled Raylan down on top of him.

Making out with Raylan at age thirty-nine wasn’t all different from making out with him at age nineteen.  Raylan had a lot more confidence and a trick with his tongue that made Boyd moan straight into his mouth but he still kissed like he enjoyed it: slow and slick and almost gentle.

“Raylan,” Boyd said, turning his head and groaning again when Raylan kissed his throat, “Raylan, God help me, stop kissing me and fuck me already.”

Raylan laughed against Boyd’s collarbone.  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he said and kissed Boyd’s mouth again.

Boyd thought about biting Raylan’s tongue and then, because he’d thought about it, he decided to try it.

“Ow, fuck,” Raylan snapped, rearing back.  The neon lights outside the motel shone in through the thin curtains, lining Raylan’s silhouette in orange and green, colours that should have made him look washed out and sick but only made him look stronger, more substantial in comparison.  

“Sorry,” Boyd said, relaxed against the comforter, more at ease than he’d been in years for all that his heart was beating fast enough to burst.

“No, you’re not,” Raylan said and laughed.

Boyd laughed with him because no, he wasn’t.  

Boyd’s upper body was all beat-up but his legs worked just fine and he curled one calf around behind Raylan’s thigh, pulling him forward with his knee tucked behind Raylan’s hip.

Raylan landed with his hands braced on either side of Boyd’s head, looking down at him with eyes that were bright in the darkness, a smile that was sharp and lustful and familiar, one Boyd had thought of many a time in the past twenty years.

“Fuck you, you said?” Raylan asked.

Boyd swallowed and nodded.  

“Yeah,” Raylan agreed, “maybe,” and stuck his hand between them, grasping Boyd’s hard-on and squeezing tight.  

Boyd cursed loud enough that the whole of Lexington probably heard him but that didn’t seem to be bothering Raylan none so Boyd didn’t let it bother him either.  He spread his legs until his knees were pressed against Raylan’s inner thighs, giving Raylan more room to work.

Raylan took him up on it, working Boyd’s cock with one hand and reaching down to cup his balls with the other, one knuckle pressing against Boyd’s perineum.

It’d been a hell of a time since anyone had had their hands on Boyd and he decided he didn’t give a shit about how much his shoulder hurt any more, reaching for Raylan and grabbing handfuls of his hair, pulling him down to bite his mouth again while Raylan jerked him off.

“Okay?” Raylan asked him, eyes locked on what he was doing to Boyd’s cock. Boyd wondered how long it had been since Raylan had had a man’s junk in his hand.

“Yeah,” Boyd moaned, rolling his hips up into Raylan’s grip.

Raylan squeezed him firmly, rough calluses catching on the wet head of Boyd’s cock. Boyd tipped his head back into the pillow, blowing out breaths that he didn’t have the patience to inhale and shivering through the building heat in his belly until he came messily over Raylan’s hand.

Raylan kept a hand on him, easing him through it until Boyd shook and pushed him off, too sensitive for the clever touch of Raylan’s long fingers.

“Fuck,” Boyd sighed, feeling muscles he hadn’t known were tense turn to jello.

“Yeah.” Raylan crawled over him, mouthing at his jaw. “That _was_ the idea, wasn’t it?”

“Until you messed with the plan,” Boyd agreed but he closed his eyes and pushed his hips up, up, up. Raylan’s come-wet fingers were smoothing past his balls, between his ass cheeks and working him open with the kind of skill and efficiency that Raylan certainly hadn’t possessed the first times they’d done this.

“If I tell you to get on your hands and knees, can your shoulder handle it?” Raylan asked, lips dragging over Boyd’s ear and his voice rough like a dare.

Boyd wasn’t Raylan though; he could resist a dare. “I got a better idea,” he said, managing to rouse himself enough to move. He curled his fingers around Raylan’s wrist and pulled his fingers out of Boyd’s ass, shifting them around until Raylan was on his back and Boyd was straddling him, Raylan looking up at him with an amused quirk of a smile on his face.

“That _is_ a good idea,” he agreed, settling his hands on Boyd’s hips.

Boyd looked down at him. Raylan was lost in shadow but no, Boyd thought, they weren’t nineteen and hiding from their daddies anymore. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp because, “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it with the light on,” he told Raylan.

Raylan ran his hands up Boyd’s sides, one curving around his ribcage, the other resting lightly just below the still-sore place where he’d been shot. “Works for me,” he agreed.

Sex wasn’t as easy as it had been when they were kids; they were older, stiffer, more aware of the consequences but Raylan’s cock inside Boyd was familiar and good and they rocked together, trying to kiss but hampered by the way the slick slide of their mouths kept coming second to the slapping together of their bodies.

Raylan’s chest was a mess of scars, some small and faded, some not so much.  He didn’t hold a patch on Boyd who sometimes felt like God’s plan was to make him the first human colander, but it was still surprising.

“How’d you get shot so many times?” Boyd asked, sucking on an old bullet scar on Raylan’s shoulder until Raylan was twisting under him, breathing out soft moans.  “I thought you were the quickest draw in town.”

“Y-yeah?” Raylan said, pushing his hips up off the bed with a kind of sinuous need that was beautiful to watch.  “How’d you think I learned to be?”

Boyd nodded, lowering his body down to meet Raylan’s. “How ‘bout this? How’d you learn this?”

Raylan tipped his head forward, sweaty bangs falling down onto his face. “Boyd Crowder,” he said, hand sliding through the sweat on Boyd’s stomach, carding up through his chest hair, “if you don’t remember, I’m going to consider being mightily offended.”

Boyd settled so Raylan was all the way inside him - real and here and neither of them pretending anything at all - and he tipped his head back, letting himself smile where he was pretty sure that Raylan couldn’t see.

“I remember,” he said and then that was pretty much it for the talking for a while.

“You know,” Boyd told the ceiling, after, “I never wondered why you up and left for Miami and never asked me to go along. Is that strange?”

“You were the only person I knew who didn’t hate it here,” Raylan said slowly. “Everyone else I knew was either stuck or looking for a way out but you, you always seemed okay here. Why would I have wanted to fuck that up for you?”

Boyd wasn’t sure that was the real reason. He was pretty sure it had been a lot more to do with being young and scared; it certainly had been for him when he hadn’t even considered following.

“Shit Raylan.” Boyd laughed. “I ended up going to _Kuwait_.”

There was a pause then, “That you did,” Raylan agreed, rolling onto his stomach and coming to rest with the side of his arm pressed against Boyd’s and his breath blowing warm across Boyd’s cheek when he talked.  “We’re both here now though.”

***

“You sneaking out on me, Raylan?” Boyd asked sleepily the next morning, before he was completely awake. All he knew was that bed was suddenly a lot colder and the room was brighter, like someone had twitched back the curtains to look outside.

He heard Raylan make a dismissive sound and cracked his eyes open enough to get a glimpse of him leaning down to pick his underwear off the floor. Okay, so maybe Boyd had been kind of harsh when he’d said Raylan’s ass wasn’t as good as it used to be.

“I was going out to find coffee,” Raylan said.  “Hospitality here is for shit.”

Boyd rolled over and propped himself up on his forearms, not bothering to hide the fact that he was watching Raylan’s chest and stomach disappear under a thin cotton t-shirt. “You coming back?” he asked.

Raylan stopped. “You asking me to?” he asked slowly.

“No,” Boyd told him.  “I ain’t telling you not to neither.”

Raylan grinned, picking up his hat from the floor. Boyd didn’t even remember him wearing it last night; he wondered if it followed him around like a faithful dog.

“Then I might as well be coming back,” Raylan said from the doorway.  “We still got to track down Gio, remember?”

Boyd rolled his eyes. “ _I_ remember.  Do you remember?”

Raylan just winked at him and let himself out of the room.

“Raylan!” Boyd called out to him before the door had swung totally shut. “Two sugars in mine.”

Raylan waved back over his shoulder to show that he’d heard and sauntered across the front porch, flipping his hat up onto his head and adjusting it over his eyes.

Boyd watched him go then moved over to the wall, checking that the rifle propped up under the window was loaded.  This was Raylan after all; he might have gone out for coffee but you never knew what he’d be bringing back with him.

/end

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Train's Homesick.


End file.
